


Long Way Around

by olippe



Series: We're Going [2]
Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Childhood Friends, Drama, Drama & Romance, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, I can't stop, M/M, Male Friendship, Minor Character Death, Musicians, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Friendship, now paul is sad, please give him pots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:46:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22664971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olippe/pseuds/olippe
Summary: They were apart. But they're coming back.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Series: We're Going [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629406
Comments: 14
Kudos: 21





	1. Where Art Turns Around and Finds Paul

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to split the previous work ([Into Each Other](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22632166?view_full_work=true)) in two because it's getting very long (haha) and the timing seems okay to split. So, what's this... not sequel, but kinda like second part of part one? LOL
> 
> Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy this part!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art dealing with life without Paul.

Art turned 17 one day. On another day, Art graduated. Suppose Paul did, too. Paul definitely did, too. Art’s head registers nothing, nowadays.

Art had a girlfriend. He broke up. He didn’t give a fuck. He went on to college. Before he knew it, he’s led a completely different life in absence of Paul. He joined tennis club. Skiing. Fencing. Whatever. Bowling, then. Girls—oh, lots of them. He joined an a cappella group. All-male. He misses Paul. No, he doesn’t. He can sing without Paul. His friends are great. They're going places. Maybe not, but they're good and they're alright. (Art didn't kiss any of them.) He’s studying well. His father’s proud of him. What’s Paul doing? His roommate’s going blind. Art’s helping him. Art’s too busy to think about Paul. Paul who? Oh, _that_ Paul. Busy Paul. Seems like he’s doing well on his own, without Art. He’d made records, hadn’t he? Without Art. Sure, why not? Did he write all those songs by himself? Without Art. Surely, he did. This is frustrating. This is frustrating.

Their parents don’t think much of it. It’s just a phase. It’s natural that they grow apart, especially now that they’re in different schools. Why didn’t Art enrol there, too? He’s being stupid, that’s why. Architecture—who has time for that? Not Paul. Definitely not. No, Paul’s busy making it without Art. Without Art.

“Hey.”

Art blinks several times. He's not feeling well, that's for sure. He'd been saying Paul's name in his head much too often, he'd begun to see the man...

"Artie."

Paul. Did he say it out loud? He didn’t. What’s going on now? “Paul.” He said it out loud.

And that really _is_ Paul. He smiles. His hair is odd. Well, that’s Paul. Wait, _that’s Paul._ Art feels his jaw dislocating. “Paul? What are you doing?”

Eyebrows meet in the middle of Paul's forehead. Paul. Paul. Paul. The name had begun to sound weird, being said over and over again. Art should try calling him by other name. Paula. No, he's gonna get stabbed. Paula— _Paul—_ tilts his head, looking at Art as if he'd just gone mad. He had, years ago. Paul's why. Paul talks. This is what he says: “Um… Hanukkah? More commercially known as Christmas?”

“Oh.” Art nods. Then laughs. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I know. Me, too. I just…”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

Paul makes a funny face, between scowling and smiling. He nods gravely, though, and says, “Sure.”

Art’s eyebrows play under the forest of his hair. He doesn’t say it, though, afraid of turning this moment into something less timid. But Paul’s never said that to Art’s apologies before. Does that mean he’s forgiven? Maybe he’s reading too much into it. Paul’s just saying sure for the sorry he _just_ said, that’s what. Not about the kissing. Or whatever. Surely?

Paul seems to recognise Art’s train of thoughts, so he huffs and smirks. “Yeah, don’t think too much of that. Anyway,” he looks around, probably looking to find whether Art’s in the park with anyone in particular, “if you have nothing else to do, wanna try practising again?”

Art blinks. Paul waits, eyes wide with invitation. His face then relaxes and he smiles mockingly. “Just… no weird things this time.”

Art laughs weakly and nods. It’s always— _always_ —better than he’d expected.

***

Paul’s finger-picking is getting so much better. Art’s stunned at how much he’d missed. Paul’s skills grow fast. He wrote new materials. They’re… different. Great, even. Like real songs, like real Paul. Maybe. Art hasn't caught up with him yet. “They’re not finished,” Paul had said. But they’re good. They’re really good.

Harmony comes with an effort, now that they’d been apart for a while. They hadn’t practised since the night with the towel. That was, what, two years ago? Three? It’s a long time for synchrony to falter. But after 3-4 trials, they find their footing and what comes next is… memory.

A knock on the door pulls Art from his daydream. Paul stops the strumming and Eddie’s head pokes in. “Hey,” he says, noticing Art with a grin. “You’re back.”

Art laughs. “Unfortunately. What’s up, Eddie?”

“Not much.” Eddie’s so much like Paul. So much. He'd seen Eddie a couple of times when he's avoiding Paul. He's such a nice kid. Very normal. How did he get Paul as a brother? Art would like to know. Art would like to trade place. Eddie doesn't need to know any of these thoughts, though. “Um, Mom’s wondering if you’re staying for dinner.”

“On first night home, on Hanukkah holiday? I don’t think so.”

Eddie nods and waves before vanishing behind closed door. Paul’s head’s still looking at the door, then, with a toying smile, “Do you think I should leave the door open?”

Art, offended, moves backwards. “Not funny, Paul.”

“I know. That’s why I’m laughing at it.”

Paul turns his face at Art now, glowering. “I’m sorry, but you’re not the only one going through this, Artie. How do you think _I_ felt? We’d just gone through that… all that… great thing, and then you just… pulled _that_ and I had to let go of the idea of going through those things again with you? Of everything we could've had? After everything I’d done to get you? You know I'd been wanting to do this with you since I was 8—8, Artie. I'd waited long enough for you, I'd done everything to get you. And you—you just play it as if you’re the only one who’s hurt.”

Before stopping to think, Art blurts, “Were you?”

Paul snaps. His face was never more contorted before. Art opens his mouth to apologise, but Paul already rolls in thundering. “ _Was I?_ I lost my best friend, fucktard! Strip off the whole thing about my dreams if that means nothing to you, but how could you not see that? I lost you!”

Art raises his arm to shield him from… anything—guitar, maybe. He repeats, “I’m sorry,” but none seems to reach Paul. He stands up now, stomping all over the place, ranting loudly like great storm. “I was scared, Artie! God, I was _so_ scared! I did all that on my own, did you think it was easy? If I could stomach facing people all by myself, I wouldn’t have waited on you! I’m not…” Paul, like toy rabbit with dead battery, suddenly slumps on the wall, energy was robbed out of him all at once. When he speaks again, it comes out like a sob. “I’m not good enough, Artie. I’m not good enough on my own. That’s why I’m afraid. That’s why…”

He stops, and the way he chokes is heart-breaking enough for Art to abandon his own distress. He abruptly stands up and grips Paul’s shoulders, shaking him a little. “But you _did_ do it, Paul. You’ve made records on your own. You didn’t need me.”

“I do,” Paul replies weakly. “I’m still afraid, Artie. I’m still very, very afraid.”

This is it, then. This is why Paul had been Paul all along. He’s taking the confidence Art’s been carrying in the pockets of his God-given charms, wearing it like a cape while taking the strides, away from insecurities he's been trying to leave behind. It came after him when Art took his leave. Paul, poor Paul. He’d been fighting.

“Then don’t do it,” whispers Art. Paul looks at him, meeting his eyes. God, those eyes. He’d missed those eyes. They’re so… alive. “Don’t do it alone, Paul.”

Paul has to take his eyes away. He has to. Art doesn’t mind. He lets go of Paul’s shoulders and plucks his limp hands from the floor. Paul’s fingers are calloused, _so_ calloused. Art brushes Paul’s fingertips with his own, wishing he’s had magic on his hands—to heal, to glue them together, whatever, just… magic. But he doesn’t. He has magic somewhere else.

“I will always sing with you.”


	2. Where Paul Breaks Down and Art Breaks In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art knows Paul's crying, so he walked for four hours to console him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story of Andrew Goodman is a stirring one, I am never not upset when I remember it. Meaning no disrespect to the man and his family, along with his friends and everyone who remembers him, this part of the story would mention him by name and the end of his story.

“Paul?”

“Yes, Artie.”

“So these songs…” Art raises papers filled with scribbles. “These… You wrote about girls, yeah? Do you actually _go out_ with them?” Paul laughs, a little too wildly. It’s _probably_ funny, but it could be nerves or bitterness. Anyway, Art tries not to think too much of it and laughs with his nose. “Or is it your sort of… singing what people think you’re supposed to be obsessed with? Like our gig back then?”

Paul shrugs. “A little bit of this, a little bit of that.” Art shakes his head and sneered. Paul scoffs, but smiling. “Alright, then. What do _you_ think I should’ve written about?”

“I don’t know. Your love for joints?”

Paul laughs again. “I might just, one of these days.”

“Yeah, no, but I have serious question about this Lone Teen Ranger thing… Why? Hasn’t it been, like, 5 years since the show stopped airing, when you wrote the song?” Art puts down Paul’s notes. “Who were you seeing, back then?”

“You’d laugh, but really, you.”

Art does laugh. Then, he goes quiet. The year Paul referred would’ve been the year of the Bandstand tragedy. And while they seem to have gotten over it, questions still linger in the air, unanswered and unacknowledged. Anyway, both Art and Paul had seen several people since then. But it's not that the tragedy made it hard for them to freely talk about girls, they just never really did talk about girls. Paul once put it this way: "This topic is so confusing and crazy that it's best left alone."

The last time he heard of girls situation from Paul was from a letter he wrote to Art from his camp back in the peaceful August before the Bandstand; but even then, Paul didn’t tell much in details what’s going on with girl situation. Crazy things he did with his friends, that he did write in mesmerising detail that had caused Art to send a letter to Mrs. Simon, saying that her son might die before the camp ended. Art and his deadly imaginations. Anyway, back then, Paul did mention a name—Elaine, that he “currently” liked. And other than that occasion, by the time they signed their first contract, he’d used _another_ girl-crush’s surname.

And… that’s pretty much it. It’s surprising how little Art knows, considering how long they’d known each other and how much Paul talks. Art knows he’d gotten significantly better and more interested in girls post-St Augustine. Girls liked him because he’s in baseball team, _then_ in American Bandstand, and all that. Height issue aside, he’s got all the buttons. But Paul… He’s either really not that interested, or he’s just really, really private about his romances. Suppose he's a little insecure about it, too, though, considering Art's been in the scene a bit longer and with definite more ease; he probably simply didn't want to share things that Art's been through because he likes to be the pioneer. Who knows? Seems like Paul enjoys to be the one doing crazy adventures. If this one is Art's turf, he's probably not that interested to venture or talk about it too much.

But Paul's wild, though. Surely, if he's into dating scene, he'd have done much crazier things than Art. Art is sweet. Art is a gentleman. Paul is a wild racoon.

“Paul,” Art calls again, pondering, not really seeing if Paul gives him the attention he requested. “Do you remember that time that you bought a car and it went in flame?”

Paul laughs. “That was… what, 3 years ago?”

“Yeah. 4, about. What was that all about?”

Paul shifts his weight and pushes his body up, throwing puzzled look at Art. “Stress. Why?”

Good question. Art nods to himself and considers it. After a while, he finally says, “Actually, not sure why.”

Paul smiles to that. “You’re so weird.”

Art doesn’t reply. Instead, he stares Paul down as if they’re about to start a duel or something.

Paul had changed. Definitely. He’s so much less… happy. Artie thought he’s angry. Paul’s been very insecure about his still height nowadays. But Paul is firm that he’s not angry. Disturbed about it, but not angry. It would be so much easier if he’s angry. It always would.

Now that Art thinks about it, he wasn’t angry, even then. He’s… scared, flustered, surprised, shaken; but not angry. The next day, he’s as cool as sweet ice tea. Suppose it’s just Paul’s way. When there’s nothing he can do, he just doesn’t. He focuses his energy on things he _can_ do or _might be able_ to do.

But this quietness isn’t really about pursuing dreams. Paul’s getting bored of rock and roll. He’s… different now. He still does music, still loves it, sure. But he spends time spacing out more often, and not because of pots. Art’s concerned, but not really sure whether he has to. Paul, in any way, is fine.

“Artie, you’re spacing out.”

“I know. Sorry.”

Paul tilts his head and frowns at Artie. “You know what? If you’re going to do that, I’m gonna space out too.” With that, he throws himself back into the depth of Art's bed. Art, following his suit, returns to his own wave of wonderings.

Art had been worried about where this might lead them to, Paul’s disappearing interest in rock and roll. But Paul seems to already have a plan… maybe; sometimes he just maintains the appearance. Paul’s friend, Carole, had already made album. Surely, his way’s also around the corner, right? Although suffering from diminishing optimism, Paul hangs on. He's still waiting. Desperate and discouraged, but waiting.

Meanwhile, Art’s still Art. During the few years that they’re apart, he’d made a record of his own. Lukewarm, but not much for Art. He’s still a student. He, for the time being, is first and foremost a student. His grades, as always, are good. His friends go to him for advices, he's invited to study groups. He has a life outside music, and he loves it. Paul—it seems like, in spite of the many parties he could manage, music's the only thing he's got.

Anyway, if that's the sort of determination that had led him to these new songs, then the mellowing of his behaviour must've been something good. Because these new songs… they’re impressive. They’re… different, from what Paul had ever written before. Serious. Genuine. When Art looks at the current Paul—the Paul that had gone off for years without him—it makes sense. His world is now beyond foolish stories of smitten boys and girls. It’s always been beyond that, really, but he’d never dared to speak of his real world. This is… like looking into his head. He probably wasn’t joking when he said he thinks too much.

But still, Artie's worried. What had moved him so? What happened in college? Sure, Art's more withdrawing himself past adolescence, but not as drastic as Paul. Paul's just... lost in space. As if he's looking for home somewhere between the stars.

“Paul, did something happen?”

Paul shifts his gaze from… nothing, he was staring into the air. “No, nothing. Why?”

Art shrugs. “You’re just… different. Everything about you is different. The songs are different.”

Paul sighs and turns himself over. He looks at Art with a little frustration in his eyes and says, with a touch of accusation, “You don’t like them.”

“No, I think they’re great. Exceptional. Just…” Art stops, looking for words. “I’d never seen you writing like this before. Not in a bad way. I mean, it's really good. That's why. You've... you've improved a lot, Paul. I mean, I wouldn't be surprised if you got better with guitar and singing, but this...” Art shrugs, then shakes his head and gives a little laughter. "I'm just surprised you got better with your writing, that's all."

Paul smiles. “Artie, I study literature. What sort of student do you think I am?”

“Musical.”

Paul winces.

“Okay, whatever.” Art laughs. He files through the papers one more time, then piling them into neat stack. “One more question, then. Did you really not kiss those girls from St Augustine?”

“Oh, you really _won’t_ let that go, will you?”

***

Paul brought Artie to yet another audition. It’s not even that long after they revisited each other. Paul, apparently, after all these years, still has that much faith in Artie. It’s so much easier to do together, too, this whole facing production people thing. They'd brought Paul's new songs. The recording company was impressed. Paul yelled in the park, scaring pigeons, ecstatic. Art, more composed when in public, simply laughed. But he's happy. They're happy. Paul's happy. They're making their way again; this time, one more time, together.

Months following the signing of their contracts, Paul and Art became Paul and Art again. Paul graduated in February, giving him a lot of time to manage the music. Art’s roommate had just finished his study, crediting Art for his help throughout the year and gave him “seed money”, which he used to fund Paul and his recordings. Paul loves these songs. Art can tell. He doesn’t speak much, but he moves around more, which is Paul’s alien way to say that he’s proud of this song.

In summer, their packed schedule’s winding down. Art’s spending his time in college, catching up with graduation. In several months, he'd be done with all this. But right now, everyone's expecting him to come up with a brilliant note to finish his college. Hope is riding high. Art still considers steadier life, in spite of having Paul back in his life. But he's never going to make that apparent. Not now, not ever. He'd do everything he can for Paul now—at least in the meantime, if meantime means forever.

What does it mean anyway? Art was determined that he doesn't like _like_ Paul, the last time the question was asked. He kissed Paul, that happened. But he's sure that it didn't mean _that._ But why is he so happy that Paul's returned? This isn't the usual happiness that he felt when he accidentally reconnected with someone from his past. Why is he so happy, and why is he plotting to make sure that he can maintain this forever—emphasis on forever? Why does he want so desperately for Paul to be around— _forever_? And why was he so miserable when Paul wasn't? He glided through his days without much thoughts when Paul wasn't there, as if he's just wasting time until the next chance to see Paul again. What does it all mean?

Art, sadly, is not stupid. He knows what this all means.

It was way past noon when Art decided to get out of his now-empty bedroom. A break would be nice. He needs one, every now and then. Besides, it seems like people had been strolling past his bedroom from time to time, since the morning. Something must be happening in the common room. Might be fun. Might distract him from all this finishing-college thing, or from all these Paul-related thoughts.

Art makes his way downstairs—his bedroom's at the head of the stairs, giving him better access to see what's going on below. He sees people huddling around the communal TV, face serious. Frowning, Art pushes through the crowd, ears peaking. When he learns what happened, Art immediately turns his heels and runs towards Forest Hills.

He should’ve taken taxi. Or bus. Or train. Or bike. But, no, Art has to go all Art. Is it flare for dramatics? What was he thinking; that he’d run for hours to find theatrical ending at the finish line? No, Art is simply not thinking. He doesn't have time to. He needs to move fast, and at the moment, with his feelings thundering like that, no motorised vehicle seems to be able to match his speed.

It’s already evening when Art finally finds himself in front of the Simon’s household. The house is quiet, but the three-paned window on top floor is open with golden lights still on. Art isn’t really sure what to do now. Call out to Paul? Climb a tree… somehow? Steal the spare key under the rock and sneak into the house? Yeah, that last one. It’s easier to explain.

No one stirs when Art manages himself into the house. He’d turned the key very carefully and took off his shoes, silencing himself. He makes his way upstairs, tiptoeing.

“Paul,” he whispers at Paul’s bedroom door. It’s still red. “Paul, it’s me.”

Rustling noises. Stomps. Turned keys. Paul’s behind the door, eyes red, hair all over the place. Art opens his mouth to give consolation, but Paul doesn’t wait. He reaches out for Artie and cries on his chest.

“I’m so sorry, Paul.” Art gingerly strokes his hair, nervous, tired and unsure. “I know he was your brother.”

In June 1964, Andrew Goodman was murdered.


	3. Where Art Stays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art finally answers the question. He tries, at least.

Art runs off to make some tea for Paul. He’s confronted by the sleepy Mrs. Simon in the kitchen, but she quickly understands his presence. She hugs Art whilst thanking him for taking care of Paul. “He hasn’t had anything to eat since noon, try to get something in him, won’t you?” She points at a small jar on the kitchen counter, which Art remembers to have contained rugelach on the night of the Bandstand. He nods. Sighing, Mrs. Simon continues, “Paul’s… an isolating type when he’s sad. Never heard him cried like that before. It’s dark business, it’s dark business.” She pats Art on the arm with a squeeze. “Won’t bother you much, but I’m just warning you… it’s been a rough night for him. If he’s too much, just… Well, you know where the mattresses are, or you can use Eddie’s room. He’s not home, but he’d tried calling a few times. If he tries again, get Paul to talk to him, okay? He’s worried. Or tell him that you’re gonna be here, he’d be less concerned… You _are_ staying over, aren’t you?”

Art nods again. Mrs. Simon smiles tiredly, yawns and retreats.

Art hasn't discussed whether he's staying over or not, but it's not a good time to have self-centred discussion. Paul's distraught, that's what matters. If Art is causing more distress, then he's free to throw Art out of the window, for all he cares. For now, a cup of tea. Over-steeped, but it's gonna be fine.

Paul had stopped crying when Art comes in. He forces a mug on Paul’s hands and sits down by his side, sipping his tea. He doesn’t speak until Paul lifts the mug to his lips and chugs. Art considers his options; what should he say in situation like this? “How are you feeling?” seems like a stupid question to ask to a man who just lost a friend. “Are you alright?” is not better.

“Do you want anything to eat?” Art chose wisely. To that, Paul shakes his head. His face is still haunted and empty. Art had never seen Paul cried before. He was on the verge, a couple of times, but never really a tear. No-more-tear. It's disturbing to know how much this breaks him and there's nothing Art could do. He feels like tearing open his chest and hands over his heart just so... so he can do _something._ Paul doesn't need his heart, though. There's nothing Art has that he can offer to console Paul. 

Paul has been sitting on the floor, hugging his knees. He looks so small, folding himself like that. So small, so sad, and so cold in the middle of summer. Art stands up and closes the window, then drags a blanket from Paul’s bed, covering him with it. “Paul, I’m sorry.”

Finally, Paul looks up and examines Art. His face blanks, as if he'd never seen Art before. Trails of dried tears are still unwiped on his face; Art, too, feels like he'd never seen Paul before. Except he misses Paul. It's like the first time seeing him and knowing, just like that, that he'd been looking for Paul forever.

There's that word again. Forever.

“You know,” Paul starts slowly, his voice raspy from crying, “that’s the only thing you’d ever said to me ever since you kissed me in the bathroom.”

Art isn’t ready for that conversation. Not on the night he saw Paul crying for the first time. Really, not ever. Is that selfish? But either way, this doesn’t seem like a good time to refuse Paul what he wants. Art sighs quietly and places his half-emptied mug on the floor. He carefully selects his words and Paul, knowing this, lets him have all the time he needs to make the proper selection. Art coughs softly before he begins. “Paul, you remember when we were kids, you’d tell me to sing like you? So we tried to replicate everything we do with our mouths, trying to sound alike…”

“Like Everly’s.”

“Like Everly’s,” Art agrees. He runs his finger on the rim of the mug and clears his throat. “You know, you would… You would make me sit very close to you. You know? So I can see what you’re doing with your tongue when you sang, and all that…”

“Oh.” Paul looks up, remembering. Then he looks embarrassed, frowning at Art. “Yeah, that was intense. Sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be. Just… You know.” Art shrugs. “It’s not like I’d been thinking about that ever since you did that, no. Just… When you said those things in the bathroom, you were… I don’t know, uncharacteristically nice.”

Paul laughs, weakly. He laughs. That’s a good sign. “Uncharacteristically. You’re saying I’m usually… what, evil?”

Art smirks, relaxing. “Don't flatter yourself, you’re a jerk. But that’s not the point.”

Paul grins and nods. “Right, right. Go on.”

Art searches his words more carefully. It’s become easier to formulate his thoughts now that Art had pondered upon that occasion a million times over. And Paul had definitely had time to process this, too. They could speak matter-of-factly, no brewing emotions. Although still nervous, Art finds less need to be defensive and instead just focused on detailing things that really matters. Now, if he could _just_ find the right words...

“The reason I brought that up was,” Art moves on slowly, “because I’d been mulling over this…” Paul interrupts softly with mocking ‘typical’ and an eye-roll, putting a smile on Art’s lips. “And I thought, probably it’s been overshadowing me all along. Paul, we were very close. Emotionally, and all that… With the whole singing thing, finding harmony and stuff… synchrony, thing...”

“Careful, don’t go all Shakespeare on me now.”

Art laughs and shakes his head. “But our works _also_ put us in close proximity _physically,_ get it? I think, that night, I just brought those memories through the wrong door. That’s all.” That's _not_ all. But that's the unemotional bit of it. That's enough, right? That's what Paul needs, right?

Paul nods, as if hearing Art's thoughts and answering. Art sighs loudly, feeling burden that’s been pulling on him suddenly cut off. He grabs his mug and finishes the lukewarm content in one gulp. Paul, on his side, sips more carefully.

Art stands to put his empty mug on the table, away from danger of having it knocked over. Paul follows him. For a while, the sound of soft knock of mugs being placed on wooden table is the only thing they had for the night. Art considers persuading Paul to eat, as instructed by Mrs. Simon. He personally wants to know what's inside that small jar in the kitchen. Surely it's not another rugelach? Sugar cookies, probably. That would be nice. She might have something more filling, too. Art wouldn't mind some fish or stew. After all, he _had_ been running all the way from Manhattan. He'd soaked himself in sweat and had himself dried and over several times by then.

But Paul pushes a chair over to Artie, signalling for him to sit. So, Art does. The chair gives in with a squeaky noise. Paul used to sit on it with his guitar, one leg folded up, and he’d rock his body on it, disturbing the chair’s integrity. Art’s sure that it’s the cause of all the squeaking.

Art has placed his arms on his lap, so Paul takes over the armrests. He props himself on it, presses his knee on the chair cushion between Art’s legs and hunches over the blond man. Art’s eyes widen as Paul’s face presses on, getting closer. His breath becomes sharp and trembling. Their noses bumps against each other, but gently. Art isn’t sure what to do with his eyes. Paul, noticing, smiles. “Don’t cross your eyes. You look weird.”

Art frowns but doesn’t dare to break the silence. He doesn’t want the moment to falter—although, what _is_ this moment? On his laps, his palms begin to sweat. It’s pretty gross, Art bets, since he's already sweaty and all. He decided to look at Paul’s mouth. Perhaps it’s just another practice. Paul can get crazy, sometimes—all the times. The story might... have inspired him. Maybe. They’re just looking around for harmony, to incite uniformed sound. Definitely.

But Paul’s mouth doesn’t move.

His face does.

He moves deeper into Art. His nose slides to the side of Art’s, and Art’s nose nests in Paul’s cheek. His upper lip could almost feel Paul’s lower. If they’d just move… the slightest move, and they’d be touching.

They stay still.


	4. Where Paul Opens the Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wait is over.

“Paul?”

When Art spoke, his lip brushed Paul’s, slightly. Art tries to retreat, but he has nowhere to go. Paul stirs too, if only subtly; his eyes did, at least. Movements subside, except in Art’s chest.

“You seem scared.” Their lips touched again.

“I’m not scared.” That sounds like a lie. Their lips touched again. Art didn’t lie. Paul’s lip was smooth and solid, firm. Not a lie, not really. Paul’s so warm, it’s like standing before the sun. He's not scared. He's not scared—he's ready to burn in flame—he'd been looking for this fire—Paul, the car, the combustion—Art wants to be ignited.

Paul pushes his forehead on Artie’s, forcing his face slightly upwards. Then Paul did it. He stamped his lips on Art’s; gently, the kiss was paper-thin. Art briefly opens his eyes before shutting it again, inhaling a deeper kiss, a soft pressure on his lower lip. Then again, with tender suckling. Then again, sweet peck on his upper lip. Then again, a sweep over his mouth. Again, a brush of tongue pulling his lower lip into Paul’s mouth.

It lasts longer now. Art’s breath begins to stagger. His hands aren’t sure what to do so they stay still, clammy and wet—Art tries to wipe them secretly. Paul tilts his head. A strange tongue slips inside Art’s mouth, lapping over his own. It’s polite at first, knocking and curtsying coyly in the intruded house, before turning brazen, monstrous. The tip of Paul’s tongue pushes and sweeps over Art’s then returning, teasing the roof of his mouth as it retreats, then comes back in. Art’s head’s moved itself to submissive turn and Art gulps, fully aware of what he’s swallowing, but receiving it all the same. Paul’s sliding down his throat, nestling inside him. Like a vampire, Art’s drinking Paul.

The thought incites low moan from Art, and Paul retreats curtly. Art wants to look away, to disappear for a bit, but his eyes are nailed on Paul’s face, ajar-mouthed with short breaths, flushed cheeks, and sweat sliding down his temple. His face flashes a look that he plastered when he saw his red car engulfed by fire that one early fall night, years ago. Still, calculating, trying to shadow the rush of his emotions. Art, too, feels like the burning car: cracking, ablaze, admired. _Paul, do you remember that time you bought a car and it went in flame?_

_Why did you let it burn in front of my house?_

“Paul.” He managed. His voice sounded weird. Squeaking. Like the chair. Did Paul sit on him and test his balance with folded leg and a guitar? He most certainly did. Art’s breaking.

“Artie,” was the reply. Where do they go from _that_ sort of reaction?

Paul walks to the other end of his bedroom. Art is dazed in confusion as he watches Paul goes on to pick up his guitar and begins to play. What is he thinking? Is he just going to leave it at that? That’s a pretty good song. Paul’s insane! Art walks closer; that’s a _really_ good song. Paul should finish what he started. The song. No! The kiss!

Art places his hand over Paul’s, stopping him on a chord, then reaches the back of Paul’s head. Stacking every bit of courage he’d saved up for years to come, Art gambles it all and pulls Paul for a kiss. Long and sweet, as if trying to make sure that it lasts for the rest of his life. If this should be the last… If this is…

“Art.” Paul breaks the kiss. Art feels like someone’s just punched him in the gut. But nothing gets past Paul’s observing eyes, so he laughs. “No, stupid. I just wanna put down the guitar first. Sorry, I just thought... I don't know, I thought of something good. Sorry.”

“Oh. Oh!” Art quickly shuffles away, blushing. Paul chuckles and carefully places his guitar on its stand, pushing it to the side of his closet. Art waits in mild embarrassment, but mostly happy. His heart pounds so hard, it hurts. Something's happening. _This_ is happening. They kissed. They kissed and they—Paul—seem to accept that fact very well. What's going on? This is going on. Whatever this is. Shut up, Artie. Paul's returned from the guitar stand. They stare at each other, and worry begins to settle, swallowing Art quickly—typical, Paul would say. He tries to suck himself into his own body, but then he realised he's not a turtle. So he decided to say, “I don’t understand.”

“Assume you’re not talking about why guitar had to go?”

“Get serious, Paul.”

“Can’t do. Want me to call Eddie? He’s good at that.”

In spite of his joke, Paul shakes his head to himself and smiles at the floor with thoughtful eyes. “Well, Artie,” he speaks, almost reluctantly, “some doors aren’t meant to be passed through on your own.”

Art recognised that fear flashing across his face. No, Paul's not afraid of facing people alone. Paul's afraid of being alone. Paul fears the feeling of emptiness, of being incomplete. That's why he needed Art. That's why...

Art extends his arm and draws Paul in. Neither of them wants to walk through this alone. And they’re never not alone when they’re apart. Why did they even ever do that? Art inhales the radiating heat from the top of Paul’s head. It smells like salt, dampness, faint sweetness from what’s left of his hair gel. He must've smelled like a garbage bin right now. Paul doesn't push him away, though. It's probably fine. This is probably fine. Him and Paul and this—this is fine.

Art squeezes Paul tighter in his arms, slightly pushing him up. Picking up on the signal, Paul moves his body against Art, pushing him towards the bed, catching his lips. Paul places his weight on his knees and palms, and Art places his hands on both side of Paul’s hips, supporting his reluctance, taking care of their distance. Art lets Paul devour his mouth as he wishes. Mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue, lips and teeth… Paul can do what he wants. With Art, he can always do what he wants.

Too soon, Paul left Artie’s mouth and treads a loving trail of kisses on his temple, his eye, his nose, his cheek, the side of his lips. Art closes his eyes, dissolving himself into the feeling of Paul. His body, in awkward distance, is warm, toned, flexing on Art’s palms. The back of his shirt is spilling out of his trousers and Art gingerly sneaks the tips of his fingers in, pressing softly. Paul had moved to the right side of Art’s face, planting pecks dangerously close to his ear. Paul presses his lips on Art’s tragus, then slowly sweeps the tip of his tongue over the helix, then snaking in deeper. Art gasps and grips the edges of Paul’s shirt, pursing his lips to no avail. Paul moves away and looks at him with raised eyebrow at the sound of escaping moan. “Noted.”

Art glares at Paul, bewildered. “How did you do that?”

“Huh? With tongue?” Paul flashes a cheeky grin. “Nah, I just figured. Does it work? Sounds like it does.”

“Oh, it does,” Art nods with his goofy face.

Paul laughs and pushes himself back up. For the first time, he seems to notice Art’s hands tugging on his shirt. He hesitates, “Oh, you want to…”

“Oh, no, I’m just…”

“No, it’s okay, I mean, who are we kidding, right?” Paul takes Art’s hands before he could withdraw them. Sliding to the elbows, Paul grips hard and pulls Art up until they’re sitting chest to chest. Hesitation still darts across his face, but Paul’s fingers begin to work on Art’s buttons, one at a time.

What’s it like to have sex with Paul? Art never asked that to anyone who seemed to have been involved with his best friend. Like everyone with sanity, Art never wanna find out about any man’s sex life. When he heard flitting stories on Paul’s romantic misadventures, all he’d ever heard was that “he’s so insensitive” or “Paul’s such a jerk, but, oh, I love him” or things along that line. Paul _is_ a jerk. But Art loves him.

Does he? Does he love Paul?

Well, Art thinks, as the first layer of his clothes leaves his body, it seems like he’s about to find out first-hand. Still, Art can’t help wondering. What’s it gonna be like? Paul removes Art’s undershirt. Methodical? He lifts his green shirt. Macon, Georgia—no, Paul would be feral. His hands are on Art’s belt buckle, not stumbling at all. Incredibly selfish, yeah, sounds spot-on. He works fast; he’s pulling down Art’s jeans now, peeling off his socks. Why did he have socks? Of course he has socks, he had shoes on. Where's his shoes? Great, Art. Your best friend's stripping you naked, and you're worried about your shoes.

Art’s stopped thinking now. Paul presses his fingers on Art’s ankles and his mouth finds the side of Art’s knee. He moves upwards, mobilised mainly by his lips, trekking the inside of Art’s thighs. Art tries to calm down, but he begins to quiver. Paul’s mouth left wet patches on his skin, soon chilled by summer night's wind. His fingers, calloused and rough, grip on Art almost violently. His hair tickles Art’s legs as Paul’s head moves on, leaving static trails that almost singe his sensitive skin. Art squeezes his eyes, basking on each sensation; the wet tongue and chilling wind, the coarse hand and warm skin, the fickle hair and its teasing gentleness.

“Oh, well.” Senses return to Art like an attack. Paul, invisible safe for the top half of his head, is mumbling between Art’s legs. He, then, moves himself slightly, so his eyes can meet Art’s. It somehow glows, like cat's. Paul and his luminous brown eyes. “This is the scary part.”

Art, insecure now, begins to shuffle, but Paul tightens his grip to stop Art and continues on. “Well, not like I don’t have one,” he jokes. Art gasps again when Paul plants his lips on his groin. His fingers slip under the elastics on Art’s briefs, and Paul looks up at Artie. “If you have afro down there, too, I’m gonna laugh.”

Art’s face reddened, but he laughs. “If that’s how you speak to your lady friends, I’m surprised you’ve ever had sex at all. Tell me, Paul, when you lost your virginity, was it out of pity?”

“Oh, big talk coming from… Aw, shucks, I have nothing on you.”

Paul’s nervous and stalling, Art can tell. He’s gonna let that happen, for a bit. But then, he’s gonna let _this_ happen. Art snags Paul's arms and brings him in a kiss. He makes sure it lasts long enough for Paul to slide down his underwear without having to look. Art lifts his hips and bents his knees, kicking the briefs off his ankles, then pulls Paul in embrace, never breaking the kiss, never opening the eyes. He looks for sign that Paul’s relaxed enough, then he slides his hands down Paul’s spine, stopping on his lower back. Paul pulls back and gives an almost motionless nod.


	5. Where Art Sings Indecently

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gloves are off... and the rest of it, too.

Art doesn’t waste time and quickly peels pants off Paul. Fumbling and so much less refined, Art realised how scared, excited, and hot he is at the moment. His fingers are trembling, as if he’d chugged on a whole box of Pixy Stix late at night and is now consumed in self-induced sugar rush. He can hear Paul's gasp when Art grasps on his briefs, pulling it without hesitation, giving no chance for anyone to think their actions through. However, when it’s registered in his head that he’s had his best friend stark naked on the bed, Art plops down and begins to have double visions.

Paul laughs. “Okay, didn’t expect that.”

“Sorry. Just… This is bigger than I thought.” Paul raises his eyebrow, clearly amused. Art feels heat creeping up his face and quickly adds, “That’s not what I meant.”

Paul narrows his eyes teasingly. “But is that what you think?”

“No! I just meant, I didn’t expect we’d go this far tonight. Or any night for that matter!” Art huffs, calming down. Paul’s face is unstirred. There’s been numerous times that Art finds security in Paul’s cold face, and this time, too, it’s doing its magic. More carefully than he usually does, Paul reaches out to pat Art's back. Art half notices how Paul's hand slips from time to time because his back is all sweaty, but still he appreciates the comfort. Eventually, Art finds enough capacity to rub his chin and jokingly say, “Although, now that you mention it…”

Paul throws pillow at Art. “Stop looking at my junk, you freak.”

Art cackles loudly, dodging from the attack. “You started it!”

The pillow hits the edge of Paul's bed and both of them stare at it when it loses its grip on the blanket and falls to the floor with the softest thud. Then they have nothing else to distract them. Art can feel his heart trying to stop completely, but failing miserably and instead beats even more violently. Besides him, Paul flashes a stiff smile; his hands fall weakly on bed. “So, is this pretty much what you had in mind?”

Art puts his hand on Paul’s head. He doesn’t like that, but tonight, he doesn’t start punching. Both of them are nervous, there’s no doubt about it. But this has been an abstract idea in Art’s mind long before Paul’s, it seems. And it isn’t fair. It’s _Art’_ s desire, and it’s still Paul who’s making it true.

So, Art kisses Paul on the cheek and gently pushes his chest. Paul lies on his back and relaxes. Art, preparing himself, ponders upon how easy it is to communicate wordlessly with Paul. They’d been talking without words for years, after all. Paul would frown if Art’s pitch was too high, scratch his left ear if he walked across a store that held item he’d been saving for, tap on his heel when he’s bored indoor. They’d laugh, even when nothing happened, as if finding a joke in scattering atom.

And they nod. They always nod. It's their way to reassure one another; to tell each other that it's gonna be alright, without using words; to pat each other on the back without touching. That's what those nods were. _It's gonna be okay, Artie. I'm with you, Artie._

_I do like you, Paul._

Art takes a deep breath and bends forward. First, a kiss. Then a lick. Art wants to do it the way Paul began the kiss; is it the right sequence? Art feels Paul’s fingers grasping on his bushel of hair, and suddenly it doesn’t matter anymore. Art pushes deeper, trying to figure out what to do with his tongue. Surely, it’s not supposed to just stay there? Had Art ever had this done on him before? Surely he had. How did it go? What did he like? Had Paul? What did _he_ like? Art tries to listen to Paul. Does he make any reaction? Art moves his tongue, massaging, rolling. Paul seems to be stirring. He lifts his hip, slightly, when Art begins to suck and moves his head. Art presses his fingers on Paul’s thighs, making him still. The stimulation on his tongue had excited Art, too, in return. His throat begins to produce its own sound, and he can feel Paul’s grasp on his hair tightening.

“Artie?” Paul pushes himself up, finding Art from the head of the bed. Art lets go of Paul and answers the call, concerned. “You know, when you make noise…”

“Yeah?”

“It vibrates.”

Art frowns, smirking. “The science stands.”

Paul throws his head back to the pillow, closing his eyes and savouring the feeling of Art around him. Art’s humming between his legs, taking notes—typical. A smirk tugs on Paul’s lips and he smacks Art on the head. “Don’t hum my song when you’re doing that.”

Art makes stifled giggling noise, but ultimately ignores Paul.

“I said no! Seriously, Art!” Paul laughs. “It’s gonna be weird the next time I sing it! Hey!”

Paul swears off the song he wrote in camp when he was 14 that night. But as he stares at the ceiling, panting and sweating, he feels little remorse about letting go of that song. Art, at the edge of bed, is busy doing little movements he always does when he just did something he’s nervous about. When Paul comes to his senses, he realises that Art’s folding everyone’s clothes. He smiles, too shaken to let out an actual laughter. Paul swings his arm until the back of his palm slaps on Art's back, calling for his attention. Paul smiles wider. "Stop folding clothes, you freak."

Art turns his head. Paul has to wince because Art’s hair reflects light from God knows where. “You know, Paul, I think we owe those girls an apology.”

Paul laughs. “Was it that horrible? I mean, I’ve never done that myself, obviously.”

“Well, you’re welcomed to try.” Both Art and Paul grin. It’s odd how talking about sex prospects feels so much less awkward now. Art can even shake his head in casual way to follow the joke, not in robot-with-stroke way that it would’ve been, had it been any other day. Paul's probably thinking that, too. Is Paul thinking that? Art realised he hasn't answered. He clears his throat and looks down to his lap. “No, it’s not very horrible. It’s probably like trying to put a whole slice of pizza in your mouth…”

“Okay.”

“… and a whole bottle of ketchup.”

Paul has to put pillow over his face as he screams a fit of laughter. Art makes his nervous chuckles, the kind that he lets out when he knows he’s not supposed to laugh. When Paul removes the pillow, his face is all red and he's breathless, but very, very happy. Very happy. That's very good. He laughs again. “Okay, this is gonna be the only time you’ll ever hear it, but it’s really not that big.”

“Well.” Art does his weird horizontal-waving and shrugs. “I mean, it took surprisingly more space than I thought it would be.”

Paul sighs and returns the pillow to where it belongs, thoughts already leaving pizza and ketchup bottle. “You know, that’s what your mother used to say about second helping of cheesecake.”

Art likes the way Paul looks at him from the pillow. His eyes only have each one dot of light that’s dimming, half-sleepy. His mouth is ajar, a smile leaving from it. His breathing has steadied. Paul’s hair looks better like that; in a mess, natural. Art never really thinks about Paul’s eyebrows, except that they move only when Paul corrects himself or when he insults people. But they’re thick. Very thick.

Paul slips one hand under his head and extends the other, inviting Art. Art drops his head on Paul’s chest. Art hears a puff of air leaving Paul when Art hits his ribs. Paul chooses not to yank Art’s hair in vengeance. Instead, he plants a kiss on Art’s temple, a gesture so sweet Art never thought would see it coming from Paul, much less being on its receiving end.

Paul absent-mindedly strokes Art’s head, untangling Art’s wild curls with his fingers. Art presses his ear to Paul’s chest, listening to his beating heart. Rhythmic. Loud. Fast. Art curls further into Paul, as if trying to get absorbed. He glues his skin on Paul’s, feeling the heat, the sweat, the movements of his muscle, the excitation of his rushing blood. Paul tilts Art’s face to him and gently nips on his lips, but from Art, the kisses become desperate. He wants to be more than close to Paul; he wants to be… Paul; merged into one being; whatever way to never be separated.

“Art,” Paul has contemplation plastered on his face. His fingers find Art and strokes him on the face very gently; wiping his wet lips, brushing hair away from his face. Art wants to cocoon inside Paul. He can’t believe he could even feel that intensely. “Do you want to go further?”


	6. Where Paul Goes Dynamite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And they detonate.

To Coney Island? No, Art, don’t get funny. That’s not even funny. It’s better to not say things. So Art curls his fingers into a fist on Paul’s chest, makes his nervous gulp as invisible as possible, then nods.

Paul removes his chest from Art and gives him a lingering kiss before shuffling away from the bed. Art opens his eyes slowly when Paul peels his lips off, drinking on the leftover sensation. Had Paul always been able to kiss that good? Warm, urgent, storm-like. Ended much too soon. Art watches Paul as he rummages through his drawer, curious. “What are you looking for? Protection?”

“Um, not yet.” Paul narrows his eyes and darts his hand around. “Just… something to… Ha!” Paul lifts a small plastic jar with official-looking sticker partially peeled on its side. He twists the lid open and dips his fingers in before carefully returning the jar to the nightstand. Art’s still staring, more confused than curious.

“Care to tell me what the thing is?” Art finally asks.

Paul looks at Art, as if he just noticed Art’s there, too. “Got carried away, sorry.” He returns to the bed, pushing Art sideways. His bed isn’t very big, it’s a wonder both of them actually have enough space to move around. Probably he’d been underestimating his bed all along.

With his clean hand, Paul draws Art for another kiss. Art, hungry and longing, takes it without hesitation. There’s a pressure on his arm and Art effortlessly followed the sign, climbing on top of Paul. Paul’s palms glide down Art’s spine, stopping on the low of his back.

Art gasps when Paul parts him. He tries not to look alarmed or scared, or anything Art-like, but he grips the sheet much too tight to go unnoticed. Paul simply looks straight at him, possibly concentrating on where his fingers should go. It’s slowly going in. Art braces himself for… things…

“Does it hurt?”

Art’s not sure. It doesn’t. Probably he should say that.

Paul smirks. “Difficult to talk?”

Now Art can at least let out a weak laughter. “What’s that thing?” Art tries to look behind him, partially to avoid looking at Paul. It makes so little sense how good the intrusion feels. Art feels like he has to be embarrassed for liking it.

“Uh… It’s a thing to ease the… access, you see? It can get ugly without this thing. Anyway… You need prescription to buy one of these, apparently. Someone left it in my place. Took liberty to keep it with me since. Pretty handy, don’t you think?”

Art lifts his eyebrow and grins as casually as he can. “Someone, as in a girl you hooked up with? You do this kinda thing with girls?”

“Well, my experience with guys is limited to you, so.” Art snaps his eyes shut and Paul squeezes his bottom, sliding second finger in. His guitar-picking fingers. With all the callouses and everything. Art hasn’t computed whether he likes that added friction, but registering all available sensation is a challenge on its own.

“Artie, look at me.”

Art does. When Paul kisses him, he realises how much sweat he’s producing already. Their foreheads touch and Art keeps sliding away. He wants to kiss Paul on the cheek, his neck, his shoulder, but Art doesn’t want to let go of his lips. Paul is so… intoxicating. His body is so small but so strong. He’s like an atom bomb. Is he being stupid for stepping on it? Surely dying like this would be a pleasure. Can he be stupid for the rest of his life?

“Art…”

“I’m sorry.”

Art buries his face on the nook of Paul’s shoulder. Paul removes his hands and takes it up to hold shuddering Art in place. Their chests and bellies are wet and sticky. Before he could think, Art tries to shimmy away from Paul, wanting to wipe themselves clean, but Paul’s arms remain firm around him. "God, Artie, stop squirming," he grunts. Eventually, Art gives up.

Paul has rolled over and pushed Art to the piles of pillow. Art’s still pretty much delirious from the release, but Paul’s insertion’s knocked him a new high. Paul quickly presses his palm over Art’s mouth, silencing him. His father’s already way too irritated by Art’s yelling; his high pitch and relentless breathing combining into long and unbearable sort of screaming. Art’s eyes are teary, but he nods gratefully for the quick-thinking.

When Art’s breathing stabilised, Paul removes his hand and takes both of Art’s, intertwining their fingers and begins moving. Slow, careful, rhythmic; Art finds it surprising how patient Paul is being with pleasure. Art loosen his fingers, untangling his arms from Paul and brings them around Paul’s neck, drawing him close, letting him pick up a pace, which he takes with vigour. Art stifles himself with the flesh on the back of Paul’s neck. Paul’s heavy breathing kisses his ear, the sound arousing, the warmth teasing. His throat makes deep noises. Art whimpers. They’re not close enough. They’re still not close enough.

Paul is an atom bomb.


	7. Where Art Approaches What He Yearns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night goes on.

Art feels like he needs a paper bag or something to breathe in. He’s pretty sure that he’s not gonna need it this much had he not have to hold his voice back. Art is, after all, a singer; he’s used to having his voice heard. Tonight has been very… different.

He turns his head to watch Paul gently breathing on the pillow, lying on his back. Art quietly counts the beat of his breathing; somehow every little movement that Paul makes is important now to study, to collect, to think of. So he studies the way Paul's fingers rest delicately on his chest; how his other arm remains stretched across the other pillow, ready to welcome Art any time he decides to return; the secretive drip of sweat from beneath his hair, trickling down his temple and wetting the pillowcase. Art's heart beats faster again. 

“Art, your mother’s gonna kill you.”

After a surprised jolt, Art sighs softly. He crawls back into the bed and into Paul, then closes his eyes heavily. “I know. And yours will kill you. Or will kill me, and mine will kill you.”

Paul turns to look at Art with big frown on his face. “What are you talking about?”

“What are _you_ talking about?” Art’s genuinely confused.

“You, obviously, calling Jesus. I'll tell on you, you schmuck.”

Art laughs loudly. “Yeah, well. Paul, Jesus… What’s the difference? Both Jewish men. I think we’re already way past kosher vocabulary now anyway.”

“Oh, sure, sure, hallelujah and all.” Paul smiles at Art, but the air thickens. Now that the moment’s gone, it seems like they might have to deal with the talking part of the ordeal. What if things fall apart—again? Art can’t leave Paul like this. And Art doesn’t want to. Ever.

He could feel Paul's arm shifts under his head, and suddenly his fingers are already tweaking on Art's hair. Art doesn't know how to return that gesture. Especially not now that he's thinking about what comes next. Art clears his throat, pushing himself up and looks down at anywhere that’s not Paul. “Um… What do we do now?”

“Bathe.”

“What?” Art pulls on his hair, as if trying to adjust his hearing with secret antenna. He frowns. “Are you sure you’re saying the right word?”

Paul snickers, “Yeah,” he said, standing up. Paul walks up to his dresser and pulls out a couple of robes, throwing the red one to Art. “Wait here. I’m gonna prepare the bath.”

And with that, Paul leaves Art alone in his room. He closes the door not very delicately and walks as fast as he can towards the bathroom. Paul plugs the tub and lets the hot water run. Suppose he has to make it bubbly. Perhaps not. Can he use any soap to make that? Surely his mother would have one of those special bubbling soaps. He’s not gonna sneak into his parents’ bathroom, though. Maybe he can find one in the stocks shelf.

Not very carefully, Paul makes his way downstairs. His parents are quite the heavy sleepers; they won’t wake up with small rustling noises like this. Paul ducks under the sink and reaches for one of his mother’s soaps. Bath foam. This must be it. This sounds like it.

“Paul?”

Paul jumps and hits his head. He groans and rubs his head, but quickly dumps his petty injury to turn his head. His eyes widen. “Mom.”

His mother stands there, on the threshold of the kitchen, similar pink robe wrapping her. Her face plasters worry mixed with relief to have found her son finally out of the bedroom. Paul quickly stands up, somehow feeling that he has to hide the bottle of soap from his mother. “You’re not sleeping.”

“I tried, I was worried… Oh, Paul…”

His mother had taken a step forward, and Paul moves away. “Whoa, no, Mom, I’m gonna hug you tomorrow.” He laughs nervously. “I mean, I haven’t showered. I, uh, I prefer if you don’t. I’m fine now, Mom. Thanks.”

She quickly nods and retreats, determined to not upset her son. “I’m glad. Art’s with you, isn’t he? I heard you laughing, I… Oh, Paul, I’ve been very worried. You’re alright now, though, aren’t you? I heard your guitar and I thought, oh, Art’s done it, then. You’re singing again, that’s… that’s always a good thing, isn’t it? Oh, Paul. You’re not alone, you know that, don’t you? I’m here, your father… And Eddie, too. And Art. If there’s anything…”

“Mom, I’m alright,” Paul interrupts. He looks down at his feet, trying not to feel guilty for cutting his mother. “Yeah, it’s not the best day in my life, but… I don’t know. I… still don’t really want to talk about it, but I’m getting better, I guess. I have Art. I’ll call Eddie tomorrow. And… And I’ll talk to you again tomorrow, okay?”

His mother makes another rapid nodding and places her hand on her heart. “I’ll… I’ll try to sleep, then. You take your time, Paul. I’m glad you’re feeling better. Do you want me to make you some food? Okay, then… Are you… Are you running the bath? Is that my soap?”

Paul shows his hand and shrugs. “Yeah, I thought… I mean, you said it relaxes you, so I thought I could try.” He looks at the bottle, then he looks at his mother. “This _is_ the right one, right?”

She laughs softly. “Yes. Yes, Paul. Alright, just try to sleep soon, okay? And, oh, please eat something, Paul.”

“Okay, I will.”

“Okay. Good night.”

“Good night, Mom.”

Paul waits until he hears the sound of door being shut before gliding upstairs. He discovers that his hands are trembling. Paul presses down an explosion of laughter, reducing it to nervous chuckles. Did his mother hear anything else, other than laughter and a few seconds of his guitar? Doesn’t seem so. She might be listening to the different noises, but not the conversations. Anyway, she doesn’t seem to think Paul did anything but crying. Probably.

Paul stares at the rising water—now bubbly and smells nice—and thinks of what’s gonna happen had his mother really known. She loves him, so she probably won’t even talk about it. No, she’d protect him, definitely. What if she doesn’t? What if she turns on him instead? What if she disowns him? What would Eddie think? His father’s a done deal. How will Art…

Art. What is he doing with Art? What does he want? He can’t be doing this. Why did he do it anyway? Oh, Art will ask. Art would definitely wanna know why. And if he answers wrong, Art will sulk. He can’t be having that. They’re releasing album in a few months. He needs Art for that.

Is that it? He needs Art to sing for his songs?

“Paul?” Art’s hair comes in first, his eyes the second. He looks worried, nervous, as usual. Stealthily, he slips inside and closes the door behind him, and triple-checks the locks. He crouches on the floor besides Paul, his gaze so soft it hurts. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, just… ran into my Mom, overthink things, and… Well, waiting for the tub to fill in.”

Art steals a glance at the tub, then gets on his knees to turn off the faucets. It’s getting full and Paul’s not really paying attention to it. Might be distracted because of his mother. He turns to look at Paul again. “So… What now?”

“Turn off the lamps and light the menorah.” Paul laughs at Art’s face. “What? It’s the only candle-holders we have in this house. Anyway, get in. It’s gonna cool down soon.”

Art puts his hands on the waist tie, then hesitates. “What, naked?”

Paul narrows his eyes, tilting his head in mocking way. “No, we soak with the robes and see if we can lift ourselves when they’re heavy with water. Jump in. It’s a very real rite of passage from a vague islet outside of Ireland, to test your strength as a man.”

“Alright, alright, don’t get all snappy on me. I’m just nervous, alright?”

“Alright.” Paul drops his robe on the floor and takes a step forward. He unties the knot of Art’s waist tie, then slips a hand underneath his robe, sliding it smoothly off his shoulder. He is so thin, Art. His skin is like baby’s; supple, clear. Paul tiptoes a little to reach Art’s neck, kissing it softly, nipping on his collar bone.

Paul looks up. Art’s staring back at him. His eyes are always like that. Clouded and bright at the same time. It’s like staring at sunlight from under water. Had he paid more attention to them in years that’s passed, would he have done this sooner? Kissing Art, sharing this look, holding his hands…

Paul guides Art into the tub, then presses his back on Art’s chest. No one’s really sure about the use of bubbles, but not having to see each other is… either disappointing or relieving, neither of them is really sure. Paul drops his head back on Art, relaxing. Art, quite convinced that bathroom retains its right to be a place to clean up, wipes himself off Paul’s chest.

“God, you’re hairy,” he mumbles.

Paul snorts. “Ha-ha. Took you that long to realise, huh?”

“No, I just never bothered. Not like I knew I’ll need to wash you like a dog one day.”

“Oh, that’s sweet. What’s that, Byron?”

Paul touches Art’s arms with the tip of his fingers, running over them slowly. He exhales slowly, unusually unhurried. “This is where you kissed me for the first time.”

Art hums in agreement. “I remember you ran from me.”

“I was freaked out.”

“Understandable,” Art nods. “What happened today, then?”

Paul suppresses a smile knowing that he’d predicted the question. He still hasn’t prepared an answer, so he shakes his head. “Not sure. Just lost a brother. Thought of another brother I lost, once.” He looks down, gripping on Art’s arms, as if he’s the only way to stay afloat. Fear seizes him that he shakes. Paul, pushing terrors further down, shrinks into Art. “I’m not gonna say that I’d been wanting to do this for years. But when I saw you tonight, I couldn’t help but wanting to do it. I don't know if it's just for tonight, or if I want this for the rest of my life, but... I just want it, you know? It's difficult to explain.

“It’s scary, Artie,” he says. “When I knew you, I wanted you so I can get out of here. To make songs, get you to sing them. It's what I'd been wanting for years. It's changing. I think, right now, I might want you in much different way, and I don’t know where to start. Or if I _should_ start, I mean… Besides, this world... doesn't have a place for us if we _do_ change, does it? I don't know. I don't know, Artie.”

He knows. They both know. Art presses their temples together, waiting for the world to end with them soaking in hot water. His feelings come bubbling up in violent speed, and Art finds need to not cry, so he tries talking. “Man. Things you’ve done to girls.”

Paul grins. “Now you know why I don’t talk about them.” He opens his eyes and tilts his gaze to meet Art. “What, you’re saying you had been… what, exceptionally conventional, all this time? I don’t know, I just thought, with all the girls you’ve had around, all those years, you’d have been able to do anything.”

Art shrugs. “I’m an old-fashioned boy. And anyway, I’ll never be as persuasive as you.”

“Ha. That’s my one super power.” Paul closes his eyes again, soaking himself in warmth. He just realised how sleepy he is. And hungry. He wants to talk about those instead, but his words betray him and say, “You could’ve been with anyone you want.”

“I know.” Art holds his gaze until Paul looks back. He plants a short kiss on Paul’s parted lips, and draws back slightly; just enough to be able to look into him. Because Art needs this to be carved in Paul’s mind, deep inside. Art’s never been more sure in his life.

“I am.”

Paul smiles the softest smile he’d ever made and returns the kiss, sweetly. Paul’s hand is wide, cupping the side of Art’s face. Art’s fingers are long, stroking Paul’s hair. They’re comfortable and warm like nights with blanket and mugs. Art wants to drown himself in the tub filled to brim with bubbles and two boys, in the liquid that smells like lavender and thyme.

Paul breaks the kiss and leans back, sighing contentedly. “Well, then I suppose my mom’s gonna get what she wants.” He laughs. “Seems like I’m having a Jewish wife after all.”


	8. Where They Take A Bow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday Morning, 3 AM.

Art wakes up with Paul between his legs. This is unprecedented. Art, befuddled out of his mind from having to regain morning consciousness and having it knocked on him in _that_ manner, is capable of doing nothing but grunts. He tries to catch his breath, fingers pulling on Paul’s retreating hair. When the blob under the blanket shuffles upwards and the bobbing head shows its face, Paul flashes a grin and says, “So _that’s_ how it’s like.”

Art laughs weakly. “I can get used to this.”

“Oh, we need to make quid pro quo sort of arrangement on this.” Paul plops his head on Art’s splaying arm, cuddling lazily. “Morning, Artie.”

“Morning, Paul.”

“Might need to get dressed and tidied up before my mom comes.”

“Is she?”

Paul shrugs. “Dunno. Might. Let’s anyway.”

Art agrees, so he reluctantly lets Paul go to collect his clothes. Art had folded them all—now that he thinks about it, he realised how silly he was. Anyway, the shirt isn’t the best thing to wear, after that four hours walk. Paul rummages through his drawers and finds a couple of Art’s old shirts, the ones he’d lost for several years from the time they used to stay in together. He takes the navy long-sleeves and puts the rest of his clothes in dirty pile.

They walk down as casually as they can, although Art is all nervous and filled with guilt because Paul kissed him before they opened the door. In the kitchen, Mrs. Simon’s already sitting with a coffee mug, beaming when Paul walks in. As promised, Paul pulls her into a big hug. His mother waves her hand to summon Art, who complies and joins in the embrace. They break after a while and Mrs. Simon pats both boys on the shoulder. “Breakfast, then. Art, have you told your mother that you’d be here?”

“Oh.” Art shifts his weight between legs, catching an unreasonable paranoia. “No. No, actually, no. I came here when… I wasn’t planning to, I just thought…” Mrs. Simon waits. Art sighs desperately. “I just thought Paul’s not feeling fine.”

She smiles sweetly at him, caressing his arm in a manner that reminds Art so closely of Paul’s touch, making him shudder. “That’s very sweet of you, Artie. You know, I’m very glad that you two made up. I never asked, what happened? I know you didn’t just ‘drift away’, as Paul’s father called it. You fought, didn’t you? I thought I heard.”

Paul and Art share a glance. They didn’t fight. Not really. They simply… weren’t sure what to do with young Art’s sloppy attempt at turning their friendship into romance. Paul, however, made public reasoning very easy, and Art's free to use the excuse any time the topic of why they broke up is brought up. “That’s because… he made a record without me, wasn’t it?”

Paul lifts his eyebrow. “Oh, you’re still on that?”

Art shrugs.

Mrs. Simon claps her hands, breaking the awkwardness. “Well, then. It’s not my business to meddle in. Sorry for prying, I just wanna make sure you’re alright now. Now, let’s get ourselves some breakfast, shall we? Now, Paul dear, won’t you tell us what’s going on with the record you two are working on? Artie, how’s Columbia?”

Mr. Simon and Eddie join the kitchen much later. By that time, the three plates are already cleaned. Mrs. Simon whips a fresh batch of eggs and sausages, pours another cup of coffee for herself, and lets Eddie eat more sausages than he’s supposed to. Art nods along the conversation surrounding The Simons dining table that feels like eternity. Finally, Paul stands up and declares that he’s taking Art to his home.

The summer hasn’t peaked. Grass is on its way to drying, but the crisps are yet to be menacing. Paul walks ahead, to avoid having to look at Art’s hair under the sun. He likes Art better when it rains.

“Artie, do you wanna talk?” No, that’s not what he wants to say. He _will_ have to say it someday, but not now. Not when they’re just beginning. He needs to understand his stances first before launching into discussion. If he says things now, they’d just break things. Unprepared discussions are the same as breakups.

So instead, Paul says, before Artie’s front door, “We should think this through and come back when we have at least a little idea of what we want to do.” Art quickly nods, clearly eager to just stop the conversation then. Paul laughs and claps Art on the shoulder. “But let’s try to have fun with it.”

***

And the next few months _were_ fun. Why wouldn’t it be? They’re living the dream: recording with the biggest production they could think of, producing records with not one, not two, but actually _five_ of their original songs. And Art’s in bliss. His pursuit for graduation is going smoothly—he is ever the bright academia. There’s a talk about recommending him for advanced degree, and he’s considering his options with enthusiasm and glee.

And there’s Paul, welcoming his feelings with open arms. Between singing and composing, writing and smoking, are kisses and embraces, touches and caresses. Paul’s sweet. He’s the sweetest person when he’s in love—it surely _is_ love, isn’t it? Of course it is. Paul looks at him with tremendous admiration that’s so grand, it makes Art shiver. Not only when he’s singing, but every time. When they talk over lunch, when they catch each other’s eyes in discussions with the producer; even when Paul’s busy tinkering with his guitar he’d be looking up to smile at Art with an unusually tender smile. When the record’s released, all Art could think of was what Paul was doing when he hit this note or that. There’s Paul patting his back. That’s Paul giving sideway glance. That’s Paul touching his arm. That’s Paul. That’s Paul. That’s Paul. That’s Paul.

And Paul—Paul is happy about the record. He’s proud of it. He loves the songs that he wrote; it’s the best ones he’d made. Sure, it doesn’t sound like his naïve older writing, but that’s pretty much what makes them so good. He’s matured, that’s what he thought. People had been saying that to him, too. Not “matured”, really, but more that he’s changed; mellowed, more reflective, out of the world. In a good way, thought Paul. He used to be loud, didn’t he? He did. Artie would know.

Artie seems to be happier about other things, though. But anyway, he’s so deliriously happy, it’s cute. It eases Paul to know that Art’s into this; into everything they’re doing. He’s not sure whether he’s taking him to the right direction, but isn’t it good enough that they’re on the road? Will Art be mad if this, too, leads to nowhere? No, he won’t be mad. Artie’s never mad at not reaching the better end; he’s only mad when he’s not included in the journey.

And that’s what Art always wants, isn’t it; to journey with Paul? He did say he wants to sing with him, always. And if Paul never wants to do anything else on the road, that’s fine for Art; it’s always been fine.

Then what is he doing now?

Art is so beautiful. It’s uncanny how a man can be that beautiful. And kissing Art had been… divine. His lips are so thin, it’s like kissing the face of a butterfly. Paul’s not sure whether he likes it better with Art, or if the other ones even compare at all; not like he’d ever had real feelings for them. With Art… He can’t say for sure that it’s love, but… it’s Art. To say that Paul doesn’t love him, at least in _one_ way, would be beyond stupid. Art is so… precious. And he definitely treats Paul with the same sense of protection, too. It’s endearing, how they nurse this relationship like a glass swan; and at the same time, frightening. They don't want this to break. They want this to be like this forever; pristine, beautiful, precious.

Paul looks at Art when they received the report on their sales. If he can’t be sure about this, he probably shouldn’t be sure about anything. Paul waits until Art’s graduation. He attends with a smile and a congratulatory bouquet he says was his mother’s idea, but there sure isn’t any supporting evidence that the kind and gentle Mrs. Simon would send a comical bunch of cotton flowers and dandelions. Paul takes Art to celebrate far off. They drink. They smoke. They get high. They kiss. They get naked.

When the dawn approaches, neither has had a wink of sleep. They lie in bed with their eyes on grey ceilings slowly forming more colours as light begins to fill in. Paul listens to Art’s breathing, the sound of wind that he always loves. Art memorises the drumming of Paul’s heart, the beating of life he always wants to live with.

“When are you leaving?”

Paul shrugs as gently as he can, careful not to drop Art. “Sometimes, somewhere.”

“What are you going to do there?”

“Not sure. Playing. Learning. Meeting people. It was fun when I went there the last time.”

“Sure, sure,” Art mumbles absently. He’s not sure what to say but somehow, he feels like he’d seen this coming. He doesn’t want to look at Paul, or talk to him. He doesn’t want to cry. He wants their last moment to be just this: untainted, peaceful, loving.

“You should come with me.”

Art smiles. “What, to England?”

“Yeah, why not? We can make excuses to share rooms together, and my mom will never be in the kitchen.”

“You’ve never told me. Did she hear us?”

“Oh, a bit. She simply thought both of us were crying, though. So I said, yeah, well, Mom, it was an emotional night and I’d appreciate it if you don’t bring it up to anyone.”

Art laughs. Paul is smiling, too. It’s sickening to find how a moment so peaceful needs to be pursued by hurtful events. Art doesn’t wanna be alone. Paul doesn’t wanna leave. Still, they are going to.

“Maybe I’ll come with you to England,” Art suddenly says. He talks slowly now, careful, considering. What had happened to them? What will happen to them? Without their singing, will they be together like this, ever again? Paul wants him for his singing. That doesn’t seem to be faring very well for him. Does Paul still want him? Has he failed Paul? Art looks up, steeling himself. “But not now, though. Later. When we’ve figured out.”

Paul nods. “When we’ve figured out.”

The room, with all its bleak colours, has risen to meet the sun. Paul takes the last glance at Art’s leaving head when the sun beams at it, for once voluntarily blinding himself with what he, as a child, once thought to be the light angels were made of. His stomach aches, his heart aches, everything aches. But still he closes his eyes and leaves.

When the morning comes, they’re both gone, off to wander far away from home.


End file.
